Suddenly, the need to see the studio Mom designed and created with Dad for me seems unbearable. I grab my keys and head out. I can’t get inside, but I can at least look at it, like I sometimes do for an extra dose of love and faith in myself.
Because every time I see the studio, I know all the love and hope and aspirations my parents had for me didn’t die when they did. It’s all still there, still with me. At the studio in my childhood home. And I can really use all of that when I make the decision to do something really scary. Like drawing a portrait, something I never thought I could do.
A guy waves, walking his boxer. Matty, I decide, then smile and wave back. He’s the only guy who walks a boxer around my house. And he’s friendly enough that he’s going to want to say hello. He’s already moving right toward me fast.
“Hi, Becca,” he says, all cheery.
“Hello, Matty.” I pat the dog. “Hey, Lady, you pretty thing.”
The dog preens, like she knows exactly what I’m saying.
“She’s super excited today. Told her we’re going for an extra-long walk.”
“Awesome,” I say, smiling at the wiggling dog. She deserves all the love.
“So. You coming to the fair? I see you’ve been practicing hard.” He gestures at the Jeff doll.
“Probably. I should check my calendar,” I say, needing to get going. The urge to see my childhood studio is only growing stronger, not weaker, as I’m forced to spend more time chitchatting.
He must sense that. “You in a hurry to get somewhere?”
“Yeah. I forgot an appointment.” I flash him a quick smile to be polite.
“I’ll let you go, then. Bye!” He waves, walking away with Lady trotting happily behind.
I wave back, then rush to my car.
But when I get to the house Max a
nd I grew up in, Grandma’s car is in the driveway. I climb out of my car and look at the house, alarm buzzing through me.
What’s she doing here? She never comes over, not even to check if the cleaning crew did a good job.
The front door opens, and Grandma comes out and locks the house.
I tense up, swallow, then clear my throat. “Grandma.”
She turns around. “Becca. What a surprise.”
I think she’s smiling. Or at least she’s trying to look like a nice, respectable Southern lady. She always plays the part, no matter what.
But just because she’s trying to appear warm and friendly doesn’t mean she’s going to actually be either of those things to me. My gut suddenly twisting, I clench sweat-dampened hands.
She opens her mouth. “I just came by to…”
To what? It can’t be anything good… Can it?
Instead of continuing, she says, “What are you doing here?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Devlin
I rummage through my shirts. I’m missing one of my favorites, the one with a blue, green and black platter pattern that Mom gave me for my birthday a couple of years ago…
Looks like a few pairs of boxer shorts are missing, too. What the hell?
If this were the band’s mansion in Dallas, I might assume one of the guys got our laundry mixed up and took mine by mistake. But I’m living with Becca, and there’s no way she thought my stuff was hers.